


Distrait

by micehell



Category: Farscape
Genre: Other, ficlety weridness, see end notes for spoilery pairing info
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-12
Updated: 2007-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/micehell/pseuds/micehell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes internal diagnostics aren't enough.  Sometimes you have to wipe the memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distrait

Initiating internal diagnostic: 

1101000010111110000001100101010100000100101010011100101010010100010110001000011000_1100001001100010101010__1-  
11000110000000110101010110101000010011100101_0_1_0110111010_10111111010000001011101101___11111000011_010101010111-

Diagnostic aborted. Resume?

John sighed and let it go. He didn't feel like being trapped in this room with Aeryn for the next twenty minutes while 1812 went through every one of its processors looking for a fault that probably wasn't even there. It had most likely just been some kind of temporary glitch or some bizarre DRD type thing that had made the little guy zap Aeryn. Lord knew the DRDs had zapped him often enough for one thing or another.

He looked up to tell her that, but the words died on his lips at how close she was standing, at how good she smelled. His hands tightened on the DRD, resisting the temptation to reach out and touch, resisting the temptation to take a hit of Noranti's forgetfulness right in front of her. Tiny sharp corners on the DRD bit into his fingers and he used the pain to hold onto to what little reason his life had left him with. "There doesn't seem to be anything wrong." That statement, ludicrous to his own ears, made him giggle, which wasn't likely to make Aeryn take him any more seriously than she normally did, so he swallowed it, feeling the amusement slide around inside him. "With the DRD, that is. It was probably just a momentary thing."

Aeryn gave him her _were you born this stupid or did you suffer brain damage along the way_ look. "It attacked me, Crichton. And yesterday it kept following me around. There's something wrong with it."

John slid his hands around 1812, and almost giggled again at the thought that he'd be able to divine the problem by touch. The DRD did feel like it was shaking a little, which it didn't usually do, so maybe Aeryn was right. "Pilot, can you detect anything wrong with 1812?"

There was a slight pause, which John knew never boded well for good news. "I'm afraid that neither I nor Moya can really tell with that unit. There's a… slight communication problem with it, considering it wasn't originally from Moya. There does seem to be something a little odd about its processor, but I'm not sure if that's because of its origin or if something's wrong. I'm sorry, Commander. It's just that I never received… my training…"

Pilot trailed off, but John knew what he meant. Because Pilot hadn't been supposed to be a pilot, his people had never taught him all the ins and outs of the game. "That's okay. Not like I was doing much better at figuring things out here. We'll just have to keep an eye on him for a while." John gave the DRD a friendly pat. "He's done well by us; the least we can do is make sure he's feeling fine."

Aeryn rolled her eyes at that, but just left the workroom without saying a word. She'd long ago given up arguing about his treating the DRDs like they were people -- quiet, really short people, who didn't get out much, and seemed way too obsessed with keeping things clean, but people nonetheless. It was another thing he missed about her.

For a moment, the pain of memory was too much, and John sucked in a deep breath, trying to ride it out. His fingers had clutched at the DRD again, and he made himself loosen his grip, not wanting to exacerbate any problems it might have, or break it outright. He said, "Sorry about that, little guy," his fingers brushing lightly over the unit in regret, before he reached for Noranti's gift, clutching it tightly in his hand instead. One whiff, and…

John gave a push to 1812, sending it on its way, and then set back to work, whistling.

::::::::::

1812 watched John Crichton from the corner of the room as it cleaned up its logs. It erased the results report from the aborted internal diagnostic, just in case anyone checked. They didn't need to know about the bad sectors. They didn't need to know what it meant.

Finished with the log, 1812 continued to watch John Crichton, but with only one stalk, one line of processing on the present. The rest of its attention was directed inward, looping through recorded memory clips -- _John Crichton's fingers initiating the diagnostic; hands gripping it so tightly they bled, tiny drops of John Crichton's life embedded in 1812; hands sliding over its dome as John Crichton quivered with silent amusement; a friendly pat_. 1812 shuddered again, as it had before under those hands, replaying the feel, the texture, the comfort of them until they filled all its processes, until they overloaded them. System in chaos, all sensors whited out, it rebooted, coming back online slowly, feeling the renewed circuits humming all over its dome.

As it came back online, though, another memory clip came to its attention -- _John Crichton gripping hard in pain, watching Aeryn Sung leave_ \-- and it pondered what to do about it. It's heard John Crichton calling out her name as he slept. It's seen Aeryn Sung's eyes when she thought John Crichton wasn't looking. It knows eventually John Crichton will learn the truth about Sebacean pregnancies. It knows eventually Aeryn Sung will take John Crichton back.

What it doesn't know is how to stop it. But it has some ideas. Oh, yes, it has some ideas.

/this

**Author's Note:**

> So the spoilery pairing is this: 1812/memory clips  
> And now you're asking yourself why you even bothered looking. *snork*


End file.
